


The Blood Of Heroes Never Dies

by hairdye_silverfindings



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, PTSD, a warrior's past, inspired by an RP, what happens in battle doesn't stays in battle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:43:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hairdye_silverfindings/pseuds/hairdye_silverfindings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>We cherish, too, the poppy red <br/>That grows on fields where valor led; <br/>It seems to signal to the skies <br/>That the blood of heroes never dies... </p><p>Battle and war leaves heroes scared and broken and stronger then before.</p><p>Drabbles written off of an RP I had with my Natasha about the many battles and bloodstains Thor and Natasha have encountered over the years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Home They Brought Her Warrior Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Thor: He's never had to self cauterize a wound in the cave.

_Home they brought her warrior dead:_   
_She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:_   
_All her maidens, watching, said,_   
_‘She must weep or she will die.’_

 

The fire crackles and he is worried someone will hear it. Blood seeps from the wound at his side, between his fingers, soaking his tunic in immortal blood. He draws the sticking fabric from his chest, gasping and hissing, as blood ripples down across his abdomen, staining his skin a darker shade of gold. Slowly he reaches for the dagger in the fire, it is short, and more ornate then most battle daggers. It was given to him as a gift, from his father, and he’d carried the thing with him since that day. It was not too sharp, not too often used. But it is all he has now. His hands shake.

The heat from the dagger makes his cheeks flush until the moment of contact. He has done this before, to others, he knows the procedure. Seal the sound completely. But gods the pain. His hand almost slips from the sweat, but he manages to finish his task, and when it is through, he drops the cooling dagger to the stone, his face white, sweat covering his whole body. He is still bloody and dirty and sick, but he will not die now. He will not die in a cave of forgotten dreams. The blade clatters to the stone and he has to try to control his breathing, he cannot go into shock now. The stone is cold and smooth when he lays upon it, breathing shallowly through his nose, watching the firelight flicker. He could die here.

 

They find him because of the body in the pool outside the cave. It is floating in the pond like a dead fish, war paint smeared but not washed away. It’s been three days, and the body stinks, it’s beginning to attract vermin. He is laying in the cave next to a dead fire, his golden hair matted with golden blood and dirt.

“He’s here!” She shouts and runs to him as his brother follows her. “Odin’s eye…” She kneels next to him and touches the face she knows so well. He is pale as his brother. “Thor,” She whispers leaning down and resting her head on his chest. “Please. _Please_.” His brother touches his face, kneeling on the stone next to her.

“Loki,” She begs and he’s never seen her cry.

“There is a weight upon my chest,” He speaks, raising a bruised hand to her hair, black as the cave’s depths. “Sif.” She embraces him quickly, leaving hot kisses on his face. They rush him back to Asgard, half dead, stained gold, and blistered, the dagger clutched in his hand.


	2. We've Walked Quite Friendly Up To Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> T: Never had to hold a woman's guts in while someone ran to get help.

_Oh, Death was never enemy of ours!_   
_We laughed at him, we leagued with him, old chum._   
_No soldier's paid to kick against His powers._   
_We laughed, -knowing that better men would come,_   
_And greater wars: when each proud fighter brags_   
_He wars on Death, for lives; not men, for flags._

Sif was war, and always had been. But while she was war, the brutal, berzerker fury, she was not mindless. She savored the taste of battle, of dirt and blood, but she did not understand the meaningless and strange war forged without principal. War should be fought to defend what you loved, hardly ever on the ground of expansion or personal bias, and never for money. She found the slaughter of innocents revolting and sickening, let war be fought on an equal field between those who are trained.

If asked, she could not pinpoint any specific thing she liked about battle. It was the way her blood hummed, the feeling of others falling under her blade. It was the primal sense it awakened in her. It was everything and nothing. It was the threat of death.

 

Thor could not figure exactly how long the battle had raged. Not minutes, the ground was soaked with too many bodies for it to be minutes. But not hours either, there were not enough bodies for that. Thor turned his face upward to the sky, letting new falling rain drop kiss his face, and wash away the ichor. The dirt was soon muddy with blood, black from the blood of Munispel, gold from the blood of Asgard, and the new fallen rain. Thor turned to observe the battle. It would end soon enough he concluded before diving back into the fray, his hammer hungry. It was then that he saw her, his beloved, looking daring and dark in her armor, driving her sword home, through an enemy chest. Thor watched her as she rose again, brushing muddy and bloodied hair from her face. Her eyes met his and she smiled. Her mouth was full of Munispel blood.

He watched her fall, struck in the gut by an unseen foe. Thor thought he had never moved faster, or shouted louder, in his whole life. _Sif._ His boots slid in the mud, the rain suddenly stinging and ice cold. When he reached her he threw the lifeless corpse of her butcher from her. Sif had slain him. His lifeless armor shuddered and chimed as Thor threw it aside.

"Sif." He said, his knees sunk in the mud, his hand coming behind her head, the other moving to her stomach. Already she was pale and gold from her lost blood.

"It hurts." She told him, wincing.

"It'll be alright," Thor lied, glancing down at her insides. Odin beard, those were her insides on her outsides. "Just keep looking at me. At me okay?" Sif nodded and opened her mouth in a silent scream, her teeth and cheeks still black. Thor looked up, his kin and the kin of Sif's butcher were still dying around them.

"Baldur!" He shouted, looking between Sif and the bodies around them. "Baldur!" Out of the rain his brother came, rushing to him.

"Thor, I heard you call, Mahal, what happened?!" Baldur cursed holding the Dwarven 'god's name in vain. Baldur's eyes darted over Sif's face to the crusting golden mass at her gut, her hands and Thor's hands.

"I need you to get me Loki, or Amora, or any person who can heal her," Thor shouted, frantic. "Hells if you can get me the entire healing wing I would be forever debted."

"And I, Baldur Beloved." Sif murmured, one of her hands coiling in Thor's cape. Baldur nodded and rushed off, letting Thor turn back to Sif.

"Thor,"

"Shh, speak not." Thor told her. She twisted, unsuccessfully, away from his hand in her hair.

"I... I always spoke of death in battle. That I would have in no other way. But... I am afraid." She whispered, blue eyes winder then he'd ever seen. "I am afraid of Valhalla, and of the Great Doors." Thor smiled sadly down upon her and nodded.

"It's okay."

"I do not want to die today." She told him, her hand running along his jaw. Thor took that hand and kissed the palm, telling her she would not die. Not today. She said she didn't believe him.

"I care not if you believe me, but know it is truth." He told her and she laughed harshly. A laugh that turned to a cough.

"I though princes were not to lie." Sif told him, then they were silent a moment longer. "I love you." She whispered.

"I know," Thor said squeezing the hand against his cheek, but she did not reply. "Sif? Sif!" Thor pushed harder against her outside-insides and bellowed. It was long and loud and frightened those around him.

 

Sif knew what Valhalla would be. Light and fighting and food and peace. It was not to be dark and painful, stiff and tight, and it was not to smell like sick.

Sif groaned and opened her eyes, grunting at the bright lights, and the pain in her gut. She looked around. This was not Valhalla. This was a soft bed with white sheets that had lines of gold in them. This was a soft dress. This was a tightness in her gut. This was the healing wing. There was a washbasin and a chair. Propped in the chair was Thor, fast asleep and looking worse of the wear. But Sif figured she didn't look any better. She was propped up in one of the many beds, the curtains around in drawn tight, to keep out the sight of her fellow warriors dying, but not the noise. Moaning and groaning and someone was shouting _Mercy, mercy!_

Sif looked at her hands, pale and clean. Back from her arms fell heavily embroidered sleeves as she pushed herself up and yelped with pain. That was not the smartest. Lifting the sheets and pulling her robe apart she saw she was void of bandages, but a clean fire-white scar bisected her stomach. The healers had done a good job, Sif decided as she ran her hand across it, but it still stung like the dickens. She poked it and let out a sharp noise.

"When will you learn not to poke your cuts." The voice was thick from sleep still, and Sif turned to glance sheepishly at Thor.

"Sorry." She murmered, withdrawing the hand. "You look like the right side of awful." Thor shrugged.

"Not surprised." He told her, leaning forward as if to kiss her. Sif retracted and Thor paused before moving to kiss her forehead instead of her lips. She looked down at the flicker of embarrassment on the prince's face when he forgot they didn't kiss anymore. She tuck a stray strand of hair behind her ear. As he regained his seat a nurse came in, dressed primly in the white of the healing wing.

"Lady Sif." The woman smiled. "I am so glad you're awake. And alive at that. It was touch and go for awhile." Sif smiled back at the nurse who moved to open the drapes to the window behind Sif.

"Thanks to you lot." Sif said. "I feel good as new." The nurse hesitated as she fixed the towels next to Sif at the basin. The tightness in her stomach increased, and not from pain. "I am good as new aren't I?"

"Well..." the nurse sighed. "Yes. Except for one thing..." She looked between the two and Thor reached to take Sif's hand. "I am sorry, my Lady, we did all we could, but sometimes things just don't turn out well. Bless the Norns you're alive though."

"What's wrong with me?" Sif whispered, hand tight on Thor's.

"My Lady Sif, I am sorry, but you can no longer bear children."

Sif didn't remember the nurse-woman leave, didn't remember the tears falling, didn't remember rolling over, didn't remember Thor climbing into the bed with her, but here they were. Thor brushed another stray tears from her cheeks. She should not be sadden, she'd bared two children already, one by Thor himself. But she had not given him an heir. His hand felt hot on her scar, but she figured it was because she was so cold. She crept toward him, leaning her head on his shoulder, her loose hair tangled in his hand.

"I love you." Thor murmured.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of just my forever on going project (along with all the others) so I might never get around to finishing it (hopefully I will though!) so. Have fun. And goodluck.


	3. These Men Were Born To Drill and Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Natasha: Never had to take the shrapnel out of a fellow soldiers rib cage,

_Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,_  
 _Little souls who thirst for fight,_  
 _These men were born to drill and die._  
 _The unexplained glory flies above them,_  
 _Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom --_  
 _A field where a thousand corpses lie._

Natasha was NOT trained for this shit, she was not trained for medical emergencies. She was not trained to take bullets out, only to put them in. She didn’t know how to cut away rotting flesh or how to make a defibulator out of a hot pack and a string of copper wire. She could tie a tourniquet, she could set broken bones, she could even (theoretically) deliver a baby. But she had no idea how to take fucking shrapnel out of a fellow soldier’s ribcage.

“Tam!” She shouted diving out of her hiding place, the used-to-be wall of a home, to the soldier’s side. Tam was young. Barely thirty she thought.

“Romanoff.” He choked, snow falling and catching on his eyelashes. “God fuck, I didn’t…I didn’t think that woman…” He looked over to where the dying woman used to be. Before her body was used as a bomb. Natasha nodded and ducked low over Tam’s body as she heard shots.

“Lets go,” She said. “We gotta move.”

“I… I don’t think I can.” Tam groaned, clutching as his chest, blood pooled around his fingers.

“We can sit out here in the open.” She told him, starting to drag him through the snow, staying low, trying to avoid anymore bullets. Finally she pulled him to his feet and hauled his half dead ass out of the street and the gun fire. She hauled him into a building, broken and full of glass and snow, but it was safe. Safer. Natasha gently lowered him into the dust, crouching down in front of him herself.

“Let me see it.” She said, pulling at his fingers, feeling metal tug at her own skin. “Tam. Damn it. Let me see it.” He shook his head but let her tug his hand away finally, his blood freezing in the snow. Natasha cursed to herself and put his hand back over his chest.

“Tam,” She said slapping his face gently. “Hey. Hey. I need you to stay with me okay? I need you to tell me how to get this shit outta your chest.” Tam nodded dimly and swallowed.

“I’m bag. I need my back.” He told her. “Get—get my b-bag.”  Natasha nods quickly and turned to grab the bag. She ripped it open, her hands red with blood, sending a few Band-Aids flying.

“What do you need. Tell me. Tam.” She command turning him to face her again. “What do you need?” The man blinks a few times and rifles through the bag himself pulling out gauze and morphine and forceps and a sewing kit.

“I need. I need you to do this.” He whispered, handing her the forceps. “Dope me up and take this shit out.” Natasha looked at him with wide startled eyes.

“Uh…. I don’t think….” Her sentence trailed off and took a pretty huge syringe out of the bag and a bottle of morphine and probably ended up giving Tam too much, but he could still talk and tell her what to do. Natasha’s hands shook in the beginning, rushing adrenaline and nerves not so like steel, but finally, slowly, her hands stopped shaking and she didn’t know if it was the cold or the situation or the fact that Tam had stopped talking. She had to get this done, finish it, save him.

Finally she was done, her hands were gloved in his icy blood and Tam’s chest was bulky with bandages that were as white as the snow fallen snow but getting redder. Natasha sat hunched in her sparkling green ball gown trying to stay warm in the snow. She’d given Tam the silvery SpaceBlanket she’d found in the med kit.

How long was their pick up going to take? It was going to get dark soon. Dark and colder. Was Russia always this cold? Damn, she was freezing her but off. She defiantly had hypothermia. And possibly frostbite in a couple toes. Maybe her whole foot—

“Agents… Romanof … Come… In…”

Natasha scrambled to Tam’s discarded coat, crumpled on the floor, searching the pockets until she found the tiny communicator that had gotten them into trouble in the first place. It was suppose to be a dark mission, no contact until it was done, but Tam had been scared and taken a tiny ear bug and thankfully still worked.

“Agent Romanoff here, I’m here. Please someone. We’re here.” She said scrambling to use the communicator. “Tam is in a bad place. Please. Send help. We’re… I don’t know where we are.”

“We… a helicopter… Can you… make it… roof?” The agent on the other end asked and Natasha wondered how much of her message was getting through.

“We can try.”

“How… many?”

“Just us. Agent Tam and I.” She glanced over, at Tam’s grey skin and blue, blue lips. She knelt by him and put her fingers to his neck. “Scratch that. It’s just me.” 


End file.
